Chapter V: Red Wins to Lose

Drew Lane, Tom Howe’s team mate, had not seen the Galloping Ghost. In truth it was some distance from the sleeping car to the river bank. After picking his way across the tracks, flashing his light this way and that in search of clues—some article dropped in hasty flight, a broken match, a cigaret thrown away—he came at last to a narrow stretch of rock-strewn, cinder-embedded ground.

Here his mood changed. Snapping off his light, he thrust one hand deep in his coat pocket and sauntered forward like some college youth taking the air.

This was Drew Lane’s favorite pose. With his faultless derby, his spotless suit of sea-green and his natty tie, he carried it off well. Many a tough egg had called him a “fresh college kid,” only to find himself the next moment lying on the sidewalk feeling of a lump on his jaw caused only by Drew’s capable fist.

That fist at this moment was curled around a nasty looking thing of blue steel. At a second’s notice Drew could set that blue steel pal of his spouting fire, right through his pocket. And his aim, while indulging in this type of shooting, was the despair of all evil doers.

Drew was approaching what appeared to be a dangerous spot. In the half darkness before him a great steam shovel mounted on a dredge stood with crane outstretched like some fabled bird ready to bend down and pluck his lifeless body from the river. Plenty there were, too, who would have witnessed the act with a grunt of satisfaction.

As he approached the dredge a small craft, moored ahead of the dredge and smelling strongly of fish, gave forth a hollow bump-bump.

Fearlessly the young detective hopped aboard this fishing schooner. For a moment his light flashed here and there.

“No one,” he muttered.

Hopping ashore, he made his way to the scow supporting the dredge. Having reached it, he dropped on hands and knees, to creep its entire length. From time to time, with the aid of his flashlight, he examined several posts and the outer surface of the scow. When at last he stood once more upon his feet it was with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Went south,” he muttered. “Speed boat, all right. Wonder how far? Go up the river in the morning. Find out—”

His thoughts were broken short off by the bark of an automatic. One shot, that was all; then silence.

With the spring of a panther Drew was off the barge, across the narrow open space and lost in the labyrinth of sleeping cars.

In an astonishingly short time he was close to the scene of the mysterious kidnaping.

“Tom! Tom Howe!” he called softly. “Are you there?”

There came no answer. Only from the river came the hollow bump-bump of the fishing schooner. “Tom! Tom Howe!” he called. Still no answer.

Then, without warning, the car before him began to move. For lack of a better thing to do, he hopped aboard and went rattling away into the city’s great depot.

* * * * * * * *

It was during this same night, at a somewhat later hour, that Red Rodgers and the mysterious girl stood in the obscurity of the cabin doorway. Breathing hard and peering out into the night, they were poised as if for flight.

The slight hold of the lock had been broken. They were free to go. But which way? They were on an island. How long was this island? How large was the island? What was its nature? Was it all tangled forest? Were there trails, clearings, deserted cabins? To these questions Red could form no answers.

“We’d better have a try for their boat,” he whispered.

In answer the girl pressed his arm.

Then together they stole out in the night. The shadow of a giant spruce tree swallowed them up.

After that, to an impersonal observer there might have appeared a gliding bit of darkness from time to time, followed by two black figures leaping at one another by the foot of the small dock.

The action of the figures increased in its intensity, yet there was no sound. They writhed and twisted. One went down upon a knee, but was up again on the instant. They went over in a heap to roll upon the ground. They tumbled about until they reached the dock and all but tumbled into the icy water.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the struggle ceased.

For ten brief seconds one figure sat upon his opponent. Then he beckoned. A third figure appeared. Groping about the dock, this figure at last seized upon some object that cast little shadow. This it handed to the crouching figure.

Some seconds of suspense, and at last two figures, one tall, one short, stood side by side looking at the water and the dock.

As they stood there, some trick of the moonlight and shadows made their two forms appear to melt into one; and that form presented a spectacle of abject despair. Thirty seconds this pose was held. Then the shadow appeared to explode and two figures melted into the shadows to the right.

What had happened? Red Rodgers had fought a battle and won, only to find that he had in reality lost. While groping his way toward the dock he had been detected and pounced upon by the kidnapers’ guard.

From earliest childhood Red had been prepared. A boy, reared among the tough fists of a steel town school, must be. When, in his teens, he had wrestled with red hot steel, this instinct for absolute preparedness had been intensified. Football had added to this training. When one considers that he was as quick as a panther, as strong as a lion and as cool-headed as a prize fighter, one must know that the flabby guard stood little chance. Instantly Red’s arm was about his neck in a clinch that prevented the least outcry.

The outcome of the battle you already know; but not quite. When the boy had conquered his opponent, when he had bound and gagged him, he went to look for the rowboat. Then it was that his lips formed a single word:

“Gone!”

And the girl, who in the moonlight seemed pitifully small, echoed:

“Gone!”

Where was this boat? Had it drifted away? Or had a second kidnaper rowed away to a second island, lying a stone’s throw away, for help?

No answer could be found. One thing remained to be done: to vanish into the night. This the strange pair lost no time in doing.